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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144951">war doesn’t choose between the worthy and the worthless (it shapes them)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljbrary/pseuds/ljbrary'>ljbrary</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ahsoka Tano Needs a Hug, Anakin Skywalker Cares Too Much, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin Skywalker is Attached, Angst, Attachment, Character Study, Child Soldiers, Cold, Fluff and Angst, Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Lineages (Star Wars), Master &amp; Padawan Relationship(s), Mentioned Padmé Amidala, Mentioned Shmi Skywalker, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Padawan Ahsoka Tano, Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Protective Anakin Skywalker, Sleep Deprivation, Whump, Young Anakin Skywalker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:27:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljbrary/pseuds/ljbrary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Venator-class cruisers are cold. (War is even colder.)</p><p> <br/>[or anakin learns what it means to have a responsibility to someone -- even if he cares a little too much]</p><p>:::<br/>{writing prompt: what does it mean to have a responsibility to someone?}</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anakin Skywalker &amp; Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker &amp; Shmi Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>war doesn’t choose between the worthy and the worthless (it shapes them)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i guess i have procrastination to thank for this one, because i have about twelve hours worth of ap homework left to do and i chose to do this instead</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[<b> <em>What does it mean to have a responsibility to someone?</em> </b>]</p><p> </p><p>Venator-class cruisers are cold. (Anakin Skywalker knows this from chilled metal meeting bare feet when he rises from precious sleep to seek out another blanket, only to realize they have no spares.)</p><p> </p><p>The desert is cold, too — (unfeeling and impersonal), but also when twin suns sink beneath seas of dunes in sight — it is cold. (But he’d always welcomed the arduous chill, wrapped up tightly in arms of scratchy fabric and dirtied aprons, sweat drying cool against skin in Dusk’s careful fingers of ice that slip through cracks and burrow under blankets — sharp and stark contrast to twin suns high in the sky carefully caressing sweat filled eyes and dry, chapped lips with the soft roar of madness when water becomes more of a privilege than a right.)</p><p> </p><p>But still, Venator-class cruisers are cold, and the <em> Resolute </em> is no exception -- especially after bearing the tumultuous atmosphere of dry dust and scalding wind that constitutes the system they’ve just left (sublight engines no longer roaring their precious song, and hyperdrive singing it’s uproarious melody in tune with tired feet winding through corridors, the chill of hyperspace seeping through the carefully unconscious adjustment to brittle sands and burnt air).</p><p> </p><p>Anakin finds himself nursing the same ailments from childhood; chapped lips drier than the dust coating his body, tangy scent of sweat dried cool, uncomfortable against his skin as he trudges half-witted to the mess, grasps the warm cup of caff with aching, calloused hands, dirtied and broken nails that leave odd sensations shooting up his fingers when they catch on fabric. </p><p> </p><p>The cool strip of metal beneath him seeps through his robes, just as the chilled, stagnant air filtering through the mess leaves the barest hint of touch against his skin. He sighs, eyes heavy and arms even heavier, glances to his left where the intrinsically familiar chevrons of blue and white, coated in a thick layer of dust and bruises, stay level with his upper arm as she takes her place next to him (sits, but more like collapses, a casing of bones stripped of muscle and skin, onto the bench beside him). </p><p> </p><p>Orange skin dusted brown with a mirage of either dirt, blood, or bruises (most likely all three), she slumps into the seat next to him; doesn’t bother with a cup of caff and instead simply replaces the spot where her mug would go with her forehead. It thumps down carelessly on the table, and Anakin only winces slightly at her glaring display of lack of awareness. </p><p> </p><p>It hits him again (like it does every time she’s next to him) how incredibly <em> small </em> she is. (And maybe she’s not even <em> really </em> that short — but still, she is slight, and she is so terribly minute when surrounded by a cruiser full of beings who comically dwarf her.)</p><p> </p><p>Ahsoka can hold her own, he knows this better than anyone (and he trusts her with his life already, even only knowing the young togruta for a month). She is capable — but her skills and attitude aren’t what worry him. (More so the fact that war is indiscriminate, and as unfair as it is, it is incredibly <em> just </em> ; what worries him is that she’s too <em> good </em> , too <em> pure </em> , too <em> innocent </em> , and too much of nothing heinous that there is not enough that can’t be corrupted by atrocities she shouldn’t have to understand. And <em> Force </em> , that <em> scares </em> him like nothing else.)</p><p> </p><p>He looks away; averts his eyes to the steaming rim of black liquid that is only for staying awake and not for enjoying (as if not looking at her makes him forget how terrifyingly young she is, and that he can’t do a thing about it). Anakin focuses on his caff -- lets the fight of his steadily, rapidly drooping eyelids occupy his mind when the dark ocean of liquid caffeine does nothing but reflect the stark blue stripes of Ahsoka’s montrals back into his face, distorted.</p><p> </p><p>Now, after the ache of bone-deep exhaustion gives way to dry eyes and the basest need of comfort, is the time he would find solace in Padme; forgo any attempt at cleanliness or propriety, overridden with the need (intrinsic and absolute) to hear the sweet melody that trickles into his ears, even when her silken skin is elusive and like the caress of a ghost, far apart as they are. Be with her even through the tainted hues of blue to illuminate cracked and broken nails, hands and face coated in a plethora of grime (and who knows how much of it is his blood; how much of it is someone else’s). </p><p> </p><p>But then his freshly-drained cup meets the cold metal of the table, adjacent to the inherently natural curve of chevrons adorning soft flesh in shades of blue and white; hidden under a coating of grime and filth that wraps her tightly like anything as innocent as a blanket or an old friend's arms, but bears the heavy burden of an age that does not match her own. (He knows where he needs to be; and it’s not hidden away in the innards of the engine room; not privately, secretly drifting into the haven of his wife — no, he knows he needs to be with the blue and white chevrons wrapped in Fatigue’s embrace, rust-red skin dark with bruises and blood that has an equal chance of being hers or someone else’s, adrenaline draining its steady course away to leave her shaky and with a bone-deep exhaustion to rival that of his own.)</p><p> </p><p>“Alright there, Snips?” manages to get past the scratch in his throat and the enervation of his vocal cords that feel akin to the remains of freshly clawed flesh (shouting orders and screaming names are its own type of animal).</p><p> </p><p>Her forehead remains stubbornly stationed to the surface; orange skin finding its pedestal of chilled durasteel and the residue of antiseptic to accompany it; she burrows further into the slack of rust-red arms that have been carelessly, awkwardly made to frame the tips of her montrals as her forearms rest stock-still against cold metal, crossed above her head.</p><p> </p><p>He is met with a groan and not much else, besides a half-hearted response that he can’t tell is supposed to be sarcasm, or her attempt at insouciance despite the situation. </p><p> </p><p>“Never better, Master.”</p><p> </p><p>(Anakin finds he has a hard time believing any of her mumbled words.) </p><p> </p><p>It’s an effort (though one he willingly endeavors), to rouse the nearly dead-to-the-world teenager from her stubborn pose of all slack-limbs and negligent senses.</p><p> </p><p>(And she’s in a mood — he can tell by the way she doesn’t look at him when he rests a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the film of filth that decorates it, and steadily guides her down the monochrome halls of the <em> Resolute </em>. She did not appreciate being forcibly evicted from her seat in the mess, no matter how stiff her muscles would have been had Anakin left her to her acquisition of the mess as an appropriate place to crash.)</p><p> </p><p>He can feel the stiffness of her muscles already, bound to be sore no matter what she does before morning, as she drifts rigidly down the hallway, holding on desperately to the one thing that doesn’t make her feel like collapsing on the spot (and although her petulance is directed at him, Anakin can only roll his eyes; he’ll give her this one gift in the midst of chaos — and as long as he can keep her on her feet, that’s all that matters to him).</p><p> </p><p>Though, her annoyance slowly fades to feeble at best, as does the vigor in which she propositioned to stalk unbothered ahead of him (and soon she won’t admit that his steadying hand perched carefully on her shoulder is the basest form of sustention to keep her from greeting the shiny scuff-marks of the floor like an old friend).</p><p> </p><p>He can feel the slight shiver that’s begun to break out, when it follows the salty tang of cold, dried sweat that leaves goose flesh in its wake.</p><p> </p><p>(And when Ahsoka is finally, safely tucked away in her own quarters; negating all offers of help and forgoing any form of basic hygiene when she gracelessly meets the heralded grey, coarse square of military issued fabric, Anakin lets her be — even when he should be scolding her for her shameless display of nonchalance, because Anakin can’t blame her.)</p><p> </p><p>He knows she is still cold; sees it in her stiff posture when she represses the shivers she hopes he doesn’t notice as she bows her head in parting and he swipes his hands over the controls of the room. (The last glimpse of his dreadfully exhausted Padawan as the matte durasteel slides unfeelingly shut between them is the peaks of two blue and white montrals and drowsy, drooping eyelids framed in grey fabric as she bundles closer to the elusive warm she seeks. He turns away.)</p><p> </p><p>She is still cold; slight frame still wracked with the strain of withholding shudders, goosebumps welcoming the filth that coats her skin in tandem — but she won’t admit it; will <em> never </em> admit it, Anakin knows (and it drives him <em> crazy </em>).</p><p> </p><p>She is still cold, which is why Anakin finds the tips of his fingers a hair's breadth away from the activation controls of her quarters ten standard minutes later, rolled up square of military grade fabric procured from his own bunk under one arm, and a feeling in his chest that’s warmer than any blanket could ever truly make him feel (and it feels like he is nine years old again; fingertips a hair's breadth away from knocking on the door that leads to safety, warmth [to Shmi] on the particularly callous nights where the frayed fingers of desert chill pays them a visit; creeps under cracks and burrows under blankets, and Anakin folds himself into his mother’s arms, embraces the scratch of warm fabric and the grit of dirty aprons — except this time, he feels the role has been reversed).</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t bother knocking; knows she’s asleep by the peace in her Force-signature (calm, like a river ever closely approaching rapids — but for now, serene). The harsh grey durasteel slides silently aside, allows him to greet the dim lights and bundled blankets doing nothing to ward off Cold’s icy tendrils.</p><p> </p><p>She’s pitifully young, curled up smaller than a tooka — (but she looks older than she really should, when he resists the sudden urge to wipe away the grime and dried crimson that paints her features).</p><p> </p><p>He takes comfort in the steady rhythm of her breaths when the monochrome piece of fabric comes to drape over her (like his own memory of abrasive fabric and disheveled aprons, bedecked with a fine layer of grime that offer solace where nothing else can); melodious synchrony of slow rises and falls that sing of innocence and goodness (and impending evil to stalk it, like the drip of ink to stain blank paper unawares — [because there is too much of her that is <em> good </em>; too much of her that the creeping fingers of corruption and malevolence have yet to reach, pretty touches ghosting over windless water to press until ripples become waves and there is no going back from the depths of dark ocean that sting of salt and vile malice and all she is not, should never be]). </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t move; doesn’t stir — bone-deep exhaustion given cadence in streaks of grime and crimson alike that spider-web across her skin still and hold at bay her instincts and conscience (but he feels the river of her Force; eddies that flow soundly and swiftly with no real destination except <em> peace </em>, and he feels the impending rapids recede further away; further away like the creeping tendrils of ice that cripple limbs and hide in dark corners and bright rooms alike).</p><p> </p><p>He leaves her be; calm flow of rivers warding off dissonance displayed in flames of crimson mixed with dust that frame her face, her innocence mockingly. Anakin hits the controls of her quarters, turns away before impersonal metal barricades him from his sleeping student.</p><p> </p><p>(And he walks silently down the hall, finds within himself a wordless commitment -- a swear of feeling that has nothing to do with the title <em>‘padawan</em>,’ and everything to do with the name <em>‘Ahsoka</em>’; everything to do with wide-eyed blue to match chevrons slowly bleeding crimson, with dirt and grime to bedeck dark ocean waves that threaten pure, white sand on shores; everything to do with what <em>shouldn't</em> <em>be</em> but <em>is</em>.)</p><p> </p><p>Venator-class cruisers are cold. (Anakin Skywalker knows this from rust-red skin [painted dull and gritty and labored crimson] that hides tense muscles aching from a chill that beats upon stubborn pride and burrows under bundled blankets.) </p><p> </p><p>The desert is cold, too — (unfeeling and impersonal), but he’d always welcomed the arduous chill of twin suns long gone behind a sea of dunes, and shadowed hands of ice and algor to caress dried sweat and beads of sand that decorate existence — and he welcomes it now, too, when he knows that the arms he had hidden away in as grievous jaws of cold and chill chased heels, burrowed under blankets, creeped through cracks — (scratch of fabric to precede beseeching warmth, comfort, safety [Shmi] and soiled aprons more beautiful than twin suns setting) — knows that they have a new child to protect; to keep away the ghosts of Corruption’s fingertips from making ripples sway to waves that sting of salt and vicious malice, keep the errant stain of dark ink from bleeding the beautiful blank of paper; knows that Ahsoka is safe from cold and corruption and all that try and steal her goodness away from her (from him).</p><p> </p><p>(At least, for a little while longer.)</p><p> </p><p>( <em> What does it mean to have a responsibility to someone? </em> [Scratch of fabric-clothed arms and well-worn aprons give way to firm hands resting on shoulders and sparse, grey quilts of cloth -- and Anakin Skywalker no longer feels the chill].)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hope you enjoyed :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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